MY BOX

 My box is made of a metal bridge,                            

                           stretching from Colchester to Australia

With cars storming over it day and night.                   

                        It is made from the oldest Oak tree  

stretching all over the world,                                    

                            with twigs pointing to all the              

different countries in the galaxy                                

                               The shape is a fine ball, glaring down, 

spinning down, further and further.                           

                      I open the box with a magic key

which has been hiding all day under my pillow           

                  It smells of flowers, of a rose,

Filling my room with rose                                        

                A memory is inside the box

I'll never forget the death of my great great nana        

                I keep it hidden in my box,

My box will close when I clap incredibly loud              

                                  I will crunch my box and I will hide it under my pillow

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